


Concerning Death, Childhood and Other Things

by the_strength_of_the_storm



Category: Assassin's Creed 3 - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_strength_of_the_storm/pseuds/the_strength_of_the_storm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A classic plot of two friends turned foes by the war, and they re-unite as one of them knock's on death's door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer time! I do NOT own any of the Assassin's Creed franchise or Thomas Hickey. The events in this story are BASED OFF Hickey's death in AC3. I do, however, own Charlotte Everett. This is purely FOR FUN and I have no intention of creating a tangible PROFIT off this. The only profit I require is your amazing comments and feedback! Much appreciated. Enjoy!

Concerning Death, Childhood and Other Things

Charlotte Everett: my character  
Thomas Hickey: Assassin Creed III character

 

Thomas blinked, then blinked again. Numbness was slowly spreading through his body, crawling slowly through his toes. He would bleed out, until he died, and taking with that Assassin had only made it worse. Pain ripped through his chest every time he tried to cough up the thick blood lining his throat or swishing in his mouth.  
A shadow as cast over his face, blocking out the sun. He squinted but the shadow was only a blur against a watercolour-style blue sky. Rain plitted softly from the grey ominous clouds that threatened heavier showers later on. The shadow knelt and he felt a hand on his forearm, which lay limp and unmovable at his side.  
And for a second the world came into focus, like someone had pulled a wrong string behind his eyes but now they’ve fixed it. He saw a woman, with golden brown hair and blue eyes, face somewhat dirty but otherwise clean compared to his own blood-splattered features.  
An image of a younger face flashed in his head, of a girl with dark blue eyes and long, tangled dirty blonde hair. A young girl in a patched dress with no shoes and a limp doll hanging from her hand.  
“Took ya sweet time, darlin’,” Thomas chuckled dryly. The woman above him did not move or smile.  
“With what?”  
“Gettin’ beautiful ‘nuff ta squeeze,” he replied, choking a little as a layer of blood gurgled and spit itself from his throat and dripped slowly down the side of his cheek. He was dying.  
Another image in his head, this time of a boy, unruly dark hair and brown eyes, square jaw and a rebellious smirk plastered onto his lips. Usually missing a shirt, in cotton pants patched at the knees from years of running, falling, jumping, climbing trees, rescuing dolls.  
“What have you been doing with these years, Thomas?” the woman asked, voice quiet and soft like the wind.  
“Whatdya think, Char? Gettin’ rich. Takin’ nights wit Boston’s finest. Livin’ out those dreams we had,” he chuckled again.  
“I never wanted to become rich, I only wanted freedom,” she told him. Thomas rolled his eyes and snorted.  
“Yah right, Char. Everyone wants money. Everyone needs it.”  
“To hell with money.”  
The woman did not break her calm, collective state as she uttered this. Thomas blinked again, clearing the red filters from the corners of his vision.  
“Ya see? These Assassins...they gotten to ya. Filled ya head with nonsense. Money is everything. Money is power. You better believe it, Char,” Thomas coughed and gurgled, spitting out blood once again.  
“You never looked?” she asked, face devoid of emotion.  
“What, for you? Nah. Seems like you didn't wanna be found,” Thomas turned his head slowly and painfully away from the younger woman. As he did, he caught a brief look of pain dance teasingly behind her eyes, and then it was gone.  
“Ok, I did, once or twice. When I had the time, but now I don't have time for anythin’. I gotta make time, is what I gotta do.”  
Charlotte slowly sat Indian-style down beside Hickey’ unmoving hand, resting the bottoms of her wrists on her knees.  
“Why the Templars, Thomas?”  
“Christ Char, can't ya let a man die in peace?!” he snapped back just as she finished the question. Connor, who was standing about eight feet away, spun around, scanning the pair to see if anything had happened. But all he saw was Hickey, lying near-dead on the stone ground, and Charlotte sitting beside his limp left fingers with her hand resting on his arm. Hickey’s head was turned away, but now it turned back.  
“It's just like I told your friend over there,” Thomas began, “they ‘as the money. They ‘as the land. The power. I did it for that. That and the girls.”  
“Is that why you did it, Thomas? Money?”  
“And tha girls.”  
The roguish man felt a snap twang of happiness as an apparent look of relief crossed the woman’s face, but the feeling disappeared as soon as it had appeared.  
“You are aware of the Templars’ goal, correct?” she asked, giving his arm a tiny, barely noticeable squeeze.  
“‘Course I am. They gots their plan, but I don't give a damn ‘bout all that. I’m only-”  
“In it for the money, I know.”  
He didn't bother to correct her again.  
“Once you got money, you got power, sta’us, and everythin’ that goes wit it. I knew about their perfect world vision, yeah, but I didn't care. I was in it for me.”  
As if his body was telling him he was done talking now, he went into a violent coughing fit, blood flying from his mouth, further bloodying his coat and shirt, dribbling down his chin.  
The woman stared at him for a second longer before looking around, and taking on of the cleaner neckties off a nearby soldier. She raised it to Thomas’ lips, and he let her wipe his own blood and God knows what else had come up with it. The rest of his face was still matted with fast-drying blood, some of it now crusty and flaking.  
The Assassin sat quietly beside him, staring at the ground.  
“Do ya hate me?” Hickey murmured, voice straining to create the words. She did not look up, but she felt his gaze on her. After a minute, she whispered:  
“I do not know.”  
The numbness was reaching his ribs now. His vision was blurry then focused, blurry then focused. His head was pounding rapidly, and a steady, slow beat in his ears that he concluded to be his heartbeat was slowing gradually.  
With his last bits of strength, he reached out and placed a hand on the Assassin’s hand, giving them a tight squeeze.  
“Charlotte Everett, do me a favor,” he began, smiling just a little as she looked up at him, “come to my funeral, eh? Or if there isn't one, bury me someplace with a nice view.”  
He didn't let go of her hands as he heard his heart slow even more. He reluctantly closed his eyes, fingers twitching in one last attempt to give her own fingers a reassuring touch. The last thing he remembered was Charlotte Everett desperately whispering his name once, and the long pauses between his heartbeats. Red and grey filters, like screens, fell over and slowly clouded his vision, and everything faded, slowly faded away.  
The last thing the brown eyes of Thomas Hickey beheld was a face of woman, dirty but otherwise clean compared to his blood-splattered features, with golden brown hair and blue eyes. A soft tear landed on his cheek, and he knew it wasn't his. And he died.

Connor turned. Charlotte was leaning over Thomas’ unmoving body, if not corpse. Slowly and gently, she dragged her fingertips over his eyes and closed them, cradling his head, slowly rocking back and forth and crying in silence.  
He walked over to her, frowning, not knowing what to say. He had been responsible for the man’s death, but it had been Hickey’s idea to become a Templar. But he had also been her best friend once upon a time, and now he was dead.  
“I am sorry for your loss,” he mumbled.  
“It's alright,” Charlotte replied, “I don't blame either of you.”  
The comment surprised him to a small degree, but he dismissed it. It was always hard to stay friends with someone on the opposing side.  
“Will you return to Boone?” Connor asked. Charlotte shook her head.  
“I cannot tell yet...I know for sure I’ll bury him...most likely in the hills near the Homestead. I may stay a while with Achilles, but not long. No, I don't think I’ll be returning to Daniel just yet. He will not mind the wait,” she told him. Connor nodded.  
“I will make my way to Philadelphia. Will you be there?”  
“Yes. Tell Adams and Hancock not to wait if I don't make it. The Homestead isn't far on horseback and I’ll bury Thomas. I should be there,” a sudden cold, orderly tone entered her voice.  
“You should consider sending a letter then,” he suggested.  
“To whom?”  
“Boone. I imagine he will be expecting you back, best to tell him you’ll be a while longer.”  
“Yes. I will do that. Just a while longer.”


	2. Winter Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Templars capture Charlotte; Thomas performs a rescue with an unexpected ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I don't own any of the Assassin's Creed series, or Thomas Hickey. I do own the plots in this chapter and Charlotte Everett. And the old man. This is written purely for fun, no copyright infringement intended and no profit is to be made; the only profit is your comments and criticism!  
> P.S.: This series does not go in sequence with the game itself; it is just a series of short stories I write while I play the game.
> 
> P.P.S.: I'm still working on Thomas' accent. It's a tricky thing to get down now that he's dead and I don't hear him. Feedback encouraged! ♥️

The Templars capture Charlotte; Thomas gets her out. Written because Thomas Hickey from AC3 is absolutely bae, even if he is a Templar. Charlotte’s appearance and some of her personality is based off my bestie Emma. Kudos to her for being so amazing! <3

Glancing quickly down the hall, he sprinted out of the shadows and to the cell across the hall. Pressing himself to the cold metal bars, he shoved a key in the lock and viciously cranked it to the left. The woman inside the dimly lit cell was lying unconscious in a shaft of pale moonlight, sprawled on the floor. His blood boiled and fists clenched as he remember earlier today watching her limp body hit the floor. Haytham had forced him, of all people, to simply throw her down. He looked back as he walked away, and through the strands of golden brown hair that covered her face he saw two shining, threatening light blue eyes that bore holes through his skull. A shudder ran through his spine and goosebumps spread rapidly over his arms. He did not look back again.  
And now here he was, breaking her out. Whatever Haytham had done to her it had nearly killed her. Barely conscious and nearly dead, he yanked the key from the lock and he knelt beside her, gently brushing the side of her face with his palm.  
“Oi, Char, ya gotta wake up, love,” he whispered. His own voice sounded stupidly desperate in his ears. Haytham had, in all respects, killed her. It was only her hard sense of determination that kept her barely breathing.  
“C’mon, Char, now ain’t the time...”  
The faint sound of clicking shoes reached him and in a panic, he realized he hadn’t closed the door behind him. The clicking was growing louder by the second. He outstretched his leg and felt around for the door. When he found it, he slowly pushed it shut with his foot and scrambled to his feet. He shoved himself as deep as possible into the corner behind him, holding in his breath, and leaving Charlotte where she had been lying for the past four hours.  
Click.  
Click.  
Click.  
Slower than he would’ve liked, the guard passed, checking every cell. He stuck his ugly face close to the bars and grunted in approval at each one. He stopped at Charlotte’s, and murmured something about “the poor girl....pretty face...shame”. He moved on.  
Once the guard was well away, he placed the keys down in the corner and crouched again beside the woman. Awkwardly taking her into his arms while also supporting her head with his elbow, he stood. In a gentle motion, her head slid down so her forehead rested against his neck. He elbowed open the door again, checked the hallway and took a left.  
The end of the hallway wasn’t too far, especially if he was jogging lightly. Now all he had to do was get past the second guard and he would be home free. From there he’d ride into the bitterly cold and unforgiving night.  
The second guard’s rounds were a little shorter, meaning he had less time to come up with a plan and execute it. He went north and south up and down a hallway, so if he turned around and saw the coat tails or the hat or even the flaw of purpose from the woman’s Assassin robes, they’d be fried. But the first guard also went east to west on the hallway that connected to the north-south passage. He needed a way to get the guard at the north-south passage take a little stroll to the guard at the east-west hallway. And soon, too, he thought as the woman stirred for a second his arms. A wave of happiness momentarily washed over him, as he thought for a second he could finally be the one performing the rescues. His bliss was short lived.  
He cleared his throat, lowered his chin to his chest and rumbled loudly:  
“Oi, kid, git ovah he’,” he called, trying to disguise his own thick accent with an even heavier accent over that.  
That unfortunately woke up the prisoner in the cell to his right, and suddenly a lean, short man with a scraggly beard was reaching his skeleton hands out of the bars.  
“Hey, cut it out, ya pig! Can’t ye see I’m tryin’ tah perform a rescue?” he hissed.  
“I’ll keep quiet,” the lean man whispered, “but you gotta take me wit you,” he cracked an ugly grin.  
“I left th’ keys be’ind,” he replied, shaking his head. The bearded man extracted a twisted wire from his beard. He shoved it into the lock and wrenched it around a few times, and the lock came open.  
The Templar stared dumbly at what had just happened.  
“Righty then. Let’s go, we don’t ‘ave all the time in th’ world,” he told the prisoner. The guards were already agreeing on going down the hallway together to check for escapees. More specifically, them.  
The Templar went first, walking on his toes and taking long but silent strides. The prisoner went second, his rough, leathery feet gently slapping against the stone floor.  
Suddenly, a small voice murmured into his collar:  
“Thomas?”  
He almost stopped and looked down.  
Checking the corner, he made a quiet sprint for the back door leading outside, his companion following. Pushing the door, he tried not to swear too loudly.  
“Shit, locked. Think that wire o’ yours can get us outta here?”  
“You be’er bet yer pretty gal it can!”  
Thomas glanced down once again at the woman.  
“Thomas, what’s going-”  
“Shh, love,” he whispered hurriedly, “we’re gettin’ ya outta here.”  
Seeming to accept this, she weakly lifted a hand and hooked it onto the collar of his coat, cold fingers briefly brushing against his collarbone, sending shivers throughout his entire body.  
The prisoner let out a low whistle as the door opened in one smooth action, to reveal a freezing night with snow drifting down at a steady pace. A lantern barely illuminated the area just outside the door. Two horses were stomping their feet and huffing, hitched to a fence.  
The prisoner closed the door.  
“Thank ya kindly, mister. I won't forget this. Now, if ya don't mind, I oughta go see about a gal,” he shoved the wire back into his beard, disregarding a strange look from Thomas.  
The older man took one of the horses and galloped off.  
“Yeah, I do too,” Thomas murmured. Making his way to the second horse, he placed his unconscious refugee on the saddle before swinging up himself, resting the woman once again against his chest.  
Flicking the reins, the horse started off into the dark, cold night. Their destination wasn't too far.  
Only fifteen minutes later, after what seemed like eternities passed battling snow and freezing winds, they reached a medium-sized building with pine double doors, a shingle roof and a tall steeple with a silver cross sticking up into the sky.  
Thomas slid off the saddle, dragging Charlotte down after him. This was his only chance. He took the steps two at a time up to the doors, noting the strip of golden light spilling out from the bottom.  
Using his elbow, he gave a harsh knock. After a second, the door flung open.  
A man, almost as tall as Thomas himself, with a mess of black hair and a light beard furrowed his thick eyebrows.  
“Christ, Thomas, who is this?”  
“No time. You gotta take ‘er, Rich. Get ‘er back on ‘er feet an then out of the city.”  
Richard held open his arms and Thomas carefully delivered his friend into them, then immediately shrugged off his coat.  
“Give ‘er this, and she’ll know who it was who let ‘er out.”  
“Thomas, what are you-”  
“Out of the city, awright? Ya understand me, Rich? Anyone comes snooping around, askin’ questions and the sort, you say you found her on the street. Deal?”  
“Yes, of course, but who is she?”  
With a hurried and irritated sigh, Thomas checked the streets.  
“Remember, last time we were out drinkin’, I told you about this girl? Remember what I called her?”  
“Yes, but I-”  
“This is her,” Thomas cut him off, pointing to Charlotte, “this is her, Richard. This is the god amongst men. Take good care of ‘er,” and with that, he pulled his coat around Charlotte’s shoulders, placed a small kiss on her forehead, turned and vanished into the night.  
Richard Brown was left holding an unconscious woman in his arms, with a tan coat a couple sizes too big around her, donned in strange purple robes.  
He sat her down on the nearest pew and rushed to close the doors. Turning, he sighed.  
“So you're the god, huh?”

 

Thomas shoved his hands in his pockets and huffed out a short sigh. That had been almost a week, now. Going on two. He had lost track of time while Haytham was constantly looking for Charlotte. Richard Brown hadn't contacted him, so Thomas only assumed that his friend was making a decent recovery and, if not already, would be out of Boston soon enough.  
Then the note came; in handwriting he didn't recognize as Charlotte’s, or Richard’s, or any of the Templars. It told him to go to the docks Thursday morning.  
It was Thursday morning, and he’d been standing there for quite some time, ready to return to the Green Dragon.  
“Awright, ‘oever you are, but I’m givin’ ya five mo’ minutes to show yaself or else I’ leavin’,” he called into the empty, bitter air. A passing dock worker stared strangely at him, earning a snarling face from Hickey.  
“Wot you lookin’ at, then?” he rumbled. The dock worker simply turned his eyes forward and went along at a somewhat quicker pace.  
“He’s looking at an intimidating man talking to thin air,” a calm voice behind him said. Without turning, he rolled his eyes.  
“Wot took you so long then, eh?” he asked.  
“Nothing but the fact that I nearly died,” came the snide reply.  
“Oh, of course, jus’ blame it on me, why don't ya. I only rescued ya from wot would be your inevitable death.”  
A low whistle.  
“You use quite a large vocabulary, for such a brute, thick-headed, arrogant man,” two hands slid gently over his broad shoulders, making him shiver.  
“‘Ey, who you callin’ thick-headed? I saved ya damn life!”  
His only response was two arms hugging him tightly around the torso from behind, and a head nestled soundly between his shoulders.  
Still he remained there, with his hands in his pockets, staring out onto the cold Boston Harbour.  
After a minute the arms slid away, and he turned to confront his life-long friend.  
“Char-”  
She had left a scribbled note there, probably pre-written in her all-capitals handwriting. He crouched to pick it up before the wind could blow it away, reading it intently over and over again.  
He knew somewhere in his heart or in his brain or in his bones that this would be the last time they saw each other in a very, very long time.

 

The god amongst men relieves you of your duty.  
-C


	3. Daniel Boone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daniel Boone is my childhood hero! I remember watching re-runs of Fess Parker every morning when I was younger. When I met Boone in Assassin's Creed 3, I FREAKED! He's so cool! So, here's a little summary: After Charlotte left Hickey and the others to finish their operation, she finished her training and left Achilles after a year to roam the wild. There she met Daniel Boone and co., and now travels with them because Achilles has never called her back and the Brotherhood hasn't hunted her down. Achilles tells Connor to find her so she can aide him in killing all the Templars. Also sorry, this chapter is wikid short...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual: DISCLAIMER! I don't own Connor Kenway, or any other Assassin Creed 3 characters. ALL rights for those guys to Ubisoft and their creators. I do, however, own Charlotte Everett. Daniel Boone (AC3) also belongs to Ubisoft + AC3 producers. The original Daniel Boone owns himself! Thanks for inspiring my childhood!

Connor watched as the two shadowed figures approached the camp. One was telling a story, a story that flowed easily from his lips like he’d told it to his audience before. He probably had. The second figure was listening carefully, laughing every so often or adding in a minor detail. Whatever the story, they had experienced it together.  
Slowly the figures came into the far-stretched dim circle of firelight. One was a man, a man of average height and lean build. He was carrying two dead deer tied to a long, wooden branch over his shoulder, and a bundle of firewood tied with twine. The woman was likewise carrying multiple firewood bundles, and an assortment of canteens and containers sloshing with water hung loosely from straps settled on her shoulders. Their voices grew louder as the pair approached. Connor first saw the woman, a bit taken back by what she was wearing. Faded, deep purple robes. Assassin robes, with a red scarf around her waist. The rounded triangle Brotherhood symbol pinned to it. A sword hung at either hip, bouncing lightly as she walked. A waterfall of golden-brown hair framed her face. She was an Assassin, just like him, but why was she all the way out here? And why had he never heard of her before?  
The man’s clothes were darker. A raccoon pelt sat comfortably on his head, pulled down over his forehead with the tail resting on his side. He was dressed in an assortment of dark brown furs and leathers. Light stubble lined his jaw and his face was hard but happy, and almost had a welcoming tone to it despite the harshness that lurked behind.   
After a quick age assessment, Connor judged them both to be nearing or in their mid thirties, only a few years older than himself. They reached the fire without even noticing him, and the man abruptly ended his story when he first saw the Native American man, dressed in white robes with a tomahawk at his side.  
“Seems we have a visitor,” he said, a twinge of suspicion intermingled with joy in his voice as he smiled at Connor. The woman in the purple Assassin robes snorted lightly.  
“Don’t be ridiculous, Daniel. We don’t get visitors on the frontier,” she said, the hints of a smile lifting the corners of her mouth. Her hood was down, and Connor saw a pair of blue coloured eyes glittering with amusement in the firelight.  
“Charlotte Everett?”


End file.
